Call me cookie

30 11 2009

I don’t have much of a problem with my genes… well, not every day, at least. But one thing I do love about them, is that I am very much like my father. It’s quite conventional, when you apply it to a woman, yet coming from my dad, I have no problem with it: I LOVE to bake. And to cook.

I know that my fondness for such stereotypical activities linked to females might have the feminists wailing against me. As I have pointed out once in my blog – or, at least, I believe I pointed it out – is that I am somewhat of a feminist, but let’s not venture into that now. The thing is, I don’t feel obligated to cook, and my Significant Other doesn’t expect me to. I enjoy it. Seeing how the people you care for (and, sometimes, even those who don’t much care for you) enjoy the food you prepared for them with all the love and goodness in your heart makes the effort of cooking worthwhile. It’s an act of caring, of giving, and those are the things that mean so much. So yes, I cook and bake because it’s fun… Plus I grew up in a house with an appreciation for good food and good times, so I suppose that explains it…

Since we were little, my sisters and I would help my father in the kitchen. Baking cookies was the best amuse-your-three-daughters-and-make-memories-with-them activity ever. From making the dough, to putting it in the cookie machine where you turn the handle and the dough comes out the front in a shape and my dad cuts it off at the desired length, to popping it first into the oven and then out onto the tray when done – all of it was, and still is, amazing. Even now my younger sister and I love assisting him in that way. Sure, both of us like to bake cakes and muffins and cupcakes and cookies, even taking a turn at brownies and fudge, but nothing beats helping dad churn out the cookies (literally). We have cookie cutters, and we use them, but it’s just not the same.

Every year come Christmas time, you can find the three of us (my dad, younger sister and I) buzzing about the kitchen, turning up the volume to the Christmas music and singing along as the annual Baking of the Cookies commences (although, only my younger sister and I do the singing, not my dad, and then we act silly and totally warp the lyrics…) I also fondly remember the beginning of last year, mid-January I believe, when my father and I sat baking cookies at home. Okay, not ‘sat’ baking, I merely mean that we were home making cookies… although I was sitting down while we waited for the cookies to bake… In any case, on that occasion, I was busy texting my not-yet Significant Other, during one of our Getting To Know More About You sessions. Turns out he also always was little mister helper for his mom in the kitchen, and that he is quite a whizz when it comes to food. He even took Home Economics as a subject in high school.

Although he hasn’t made me food once since I’ve known him. Not once. He still owes me the soup he promised to make me during the winter, and it’s already late Spring…

Now that it’s almost the beginning of December, I’m already anticipating the next instalment of the annual Baking of the Cookies tradition. I might just get my Significant Other to join in, if he’s up to it. So go ahead, call me Cookie, I don’t mind. But bear in mind, in the words of Cynthia Smith in a Stephen King novel, after being called ‘cookie’: “If you don’t call me cookie, I won’t call you cake”.

[A picture of me and my two sisters, taken last Christmas. My older sister is on the left with the short hair and black shirt, my younger sister is in the middle with the burgundy shirt and my red festive hat, and I’m the one on the right who is not looking at the camera (and I have a silver alice band in my hair). I’m the short one…]


Christmas: Fall Out Boy style

29 11 2009

As I find it to be such a great song, and because my migraine has become so intolerable as to render me momentarily incapacitated to type a blog entry that includes ‘thinking’, I’ll be posting the lyrics (courtesy of to one of Fall Out Boy’s latests offerings, YULE SHOOT YOUR EYE OUT. The song can be found on their latest album, BELIEVERS NEVER DIE – their Greatest Hits album. Read the lyrics, and see if you don’t agree with me that Fall Out Boy is absolutely awesome. You’ll like it more if you hear the song.

And if you don’t like it, that’s fine too. I just like the irony of it being a kind of Christmas song, starting off by sounding eerily like DASHING THROUGH THE SNOW, then taking that Fall Out Boy twist we faithful fans so dearly love by stating: “You’re the last thing I want to see underneath the tree… Merry Christmas – I could care less”.

Besides, one would expect nothing less from me, opting for a not-so-friendly or ‘uplifting’ song. After all, my favourite ‘Christmas movie’ is DIE HARD.



These are your good years.
Don’t take my advice,
You never wanted the nice boys anyway.
And I’m of good cheer,
‘Cause I’ve been checking my list.
The gifts you’re receiving from me,
Will be,

One awkward silence,
And two hopes you cry yourself to sleep,
Staying up, waiting by the phone.
And all I want this year,
Is for you to dedicate your,
Last breath to me,
Before you bury yourself alive.

Don’t come home for Christmas.
You’re the last thing I wanna see,
Underneath the tree.
Merry Christmas, I could care less.

Happy New Years baby.
You owe me,
Bhe best gift I will ever ask for.
Don’t call me up, when the snow comes down.
It’s the only thing I want this year.

One awkward silence,
And two hopes you cry yourself to sleep,
Staying up, waiting by the phone.
And all I want this year,
Is for you to dedicate,
Your last breath to me,
Before you bury yourself alive.

Don’t come home for Christmas.
You’re the last thing I wanna see,
Underneath the tree.
Merry Christmas, I could care less.

Don’t come home for Christmas.
You’re the last thing I wanna see,
Underneath the tree. (Don’t come home for Christmas.)
Merry Christmas, I could care less.

Don’t come home for Christmas.
You’re the last thing I wanna see,
Underneath the tree. (Don’t come home for Christmas.)
Merry Christmas, I could care less.

Child of the 90s

28 11 2009

Okay, so technically I’m a child of the 80s, because I was born in 1987. Yet when it comes to music, you have to admit that the 90s was a pretty memorable time. I grew up listening to many ups and downs in the charts, and although I cannot remember everything, what I do remember is that we all had a roaring good time.

What led me to blog about my experience of music during my adolescent years of the 90s? My younger sister, actually… although she doesn’t know it.

Now, my younger sister has a tendency to be loud. Really, really loud when she’s playing her music – most of it not particularly worth listening to, all you hear is thud thud boom bang boom thud boom boom THUD. Bass all over the place. Bloody repetitive… and all the music exactly the same. Yes, I know the word ‘repetitive’ pretty much covers what I just said, yet I mean it in a sense greater than restricting it to one artist or one album. All of these artists, scattered in different categories, across different albums, and seemingly finding no variation within their array of songs (what one might call a ‘repertoire’, if I felt the need to use such a distinguished word regarding the likes of them) – no great discerning factor amongst any of them. Was that Beyoncé or Rihanna belting out the tune? Why do young people like Lady Gaga? And how am I even supposed to consider listening to a song with “Birthday Sex” as the title?

And I swear, if I have to hear the song HOTEL ROOM SERVICE one more time, I’m going to have a conniption. I mean, do The Youth Of Today even listen, really actually listen, to the words spewing from sound systems? What has happened to values? Everything has become so bloody common, skanky and perverse, it’s disgusting.  Go to and look up aforementioned song (by Pitbull – what a mongrel…)

I don’t want sex and everything right up in my face, thank you very much, when I’m listening to music. What happened to the true feeling and brilliance of sound accompanying a song? Being able to discern the various instruments being used, and relishing in each note? No, instead, we have to have our ears bombarded by noise, a youth so hyped up on sex (from as young as 12 or 13!) and alcohol and whatever else… I’m actually ashamed of the high school I attended, when I see what it has become now. The kids their look like university students, and they want to act like it. When I was 13, I looked 13. Now, 13 year olds look like 18 year olds, and my younger sister, who is 18, is often mistaken for being in her mid-twenties!

But enough of that, now. Last night, while skipping through most songs on a double-disc album of the latest hits my sister was listening to, I became nostalgic for all the old 90s music. I removed the vile disc from my CD-player, feeling a strong urge to disinfect it yet composing myself (although my obsessive compulsive self was screaming in rage and protest) enough just to remove the disc from my sight. I then commenced to lay my hands on 90s music, after which I took my findings into the kitchen and from there on continued to annoy our neighbours by turning up the volume on such classics as NEVER EVER (All Saints), JESSIE (Joshua Kadison), BLACK VELVET (Allanah Myles), LEMON TREE (Fool’s Garden), LOVEFOOL (The Cardigans), NOTHING COMPARES TO YOU (Sinead O’Connor) and MR VAIN (Culture Beat), all from my mum’s double disc THE BEST OF THE NINETIES album, volume 1.

I shook my little toosh and sang along to WASTED YOUTH and EVERYTHING LOUDER THAN EVERYTHING ELSE by Meatloaf. I got kooky on country music, LITTLE BITTY (Alan Jackson), BOOT SCOOTIN’ BOOGIE (Brooks & Dunn) and IT STARTS WITH ‘L’ (Ty England) amongst them. I reminisced over crooning sessions of love songs with my sisters, including the likes of BLUE MOON (The Marcels), LEADER OF THE PACK (The Shangri-Las), ONE FINE DAY (The Chiffons), WHEN A MAN LOVES A WOMAN (Percy Sledge), DA DOO RON RON (The Crystals) and CHAPEL OF LOVE (The Dixie Cups). But most of all, I laughed hysterically when it came to classics such as SEXY EYES (Whigfield) and the MACARENA (Los Del Dio) – memories of lying about outside on a blanket, listening to tunes filling the warm summer air with pure pleasure as it tinkled from my old Sonic Blaster. Luckily, my dad played along last night and ‘tolerated’ my music choice.

But I could see that he enjoyed it – just the two of us, home alone, singing along to the good old days.

Jive Bunny was always the best, and you all know it. So that’s how we ended the night.

Things I am dreading

27 11 2009

* My Period (with a capital ‘P’, yes). None of you really wants to know this, but I’m sure that all women out there can sympathize with me. Even though men don’t understand it, and even though they think it is better than… well, let’s not venture there… or do let’s: I’ve been told that at least women have a kind of hormonal release that comes once a month – for men it’s ‘complicated’, and the only way they can get they’re own equivalent of our hormonal release is by masturbating. I kid you not (!!!) *uncomfortable cough* Aaaanyway, even though men don’t understand it, it’s something even they fear and dread, so all the men out there, cut me some slack for mentioning it on my blog. All I’ll say is, I urgently need to go see a gynaecologist.

* Finding a job. I went for that interview last Friday, and they said that they would be in touch (they even mentioned that they wanted to discuss salary expectations, et cetera). I have yet to hear from them, so I am just gritting my teeth, gnashing them down into fine meal, and hoping that the age-old adage about patience is true.

* My friend’s wedding. I’ve never been to a ‘young’ wedding before. And I don’t know what kind of people she has invited. After all, she lives in one of those small towns, and I’m not saying I believe in small town mentality, yet I’m busy steeling myself for it nevertheless. I have a few dresses to choose from – what I’ll be wearing – so it bothers me that I am unsure about Those In Attendance. What if they think I’m overdressed? Or under-dressed? Prude, or skanky (luckily I never, ever will be! I’ve never looked common)?

* Christmas. Okay, so Christmas isn’t all bad, although it feels like I have become more and more Scrooge-like over the years. I don’t mean that in a stingy, bah humbug way. I merely just don’t enjoy making up the house any more. Putting the tree up (a live one – we buy one every year), bedecking it with tinsel, ornamentalizing (no such word, so I’ll coin it) it… it only tires me out… Plus my younger sister and I can fight about anything, so Her + Me + The Tree = not too many happy times. Luckily my Significant Other enjoyed getting the tree sorted out, lights, tinsel, bobbles and all.

* The end of December. I should be moving in with my Significant Other by then. Or rather, should have completed my moving and be cosily habituating the comfort zone that is to be the first step in our new life together. Am I scared? Only somewhat; it feels like I’m living here already (only in the sense that I know where everything goes, or at least ought to be, since men don’t put things in the right place – I create order). No, you see, his brother, who is sharing the apartment with him, has to move out before I can move in. And I’m not all too sure how his plans are progressing, if they are at all…

* Graduation. But only because I’m still confused about when to hire the academic gown we should wear on the evening. Getting mixed communication: first, we’re told we should hire it as soon as possible (or at least, to my knowledge we were told that); then we were supposed to hire it during the course of the various graduation days (not specifying which day); now, finally, we are told that we have to do it on the day of graduation, RIGHT BEFORE THE CEREMONY (!!) How does that seem logical? If everyone who is obtaining a degree (me my second one) goes to hire it right before the ceremony, can you imagine the CHAOS??

* The end of this entry. It feels like I’ve been typing a load of rubbish… I suppose that’s what happens when your internet cap at home has turned tail and scrambled down a dark alleyway, leaving you no other choice but to type and post your next blog entry at six in the morning at your Significant Other’s apartment, in order for you to ensure that you have posted something (following through with National Blog Posting Month).

[I bought my younger sister this t-shirt, and although it’s just the kind of thing she likes, I’m now actually dreading my having bought it for her… she’s not going to wear it when she’s around me and we are out in public is she? …oh, wait, that’s right – she already has… *sigh*]

My Cat

26 11 2009

Geez, I could probably write an entire book on my cat. Or just use all the photographs to make LOLcat-pictures with. He really has a face fit for captions.

My cat is turning 14 in December. Pretty long life, for a cat, although some cats are known to live for up to 18 or 20 years. He was born round about 11 December 1995, and we adopted him on 15 January 1996. ‘Adopt’ isn’t really the suitable word here. Saved His Life would be more appropriate. Apparently, the people who owned the kittens wanted to drown Mewsy (not his real name, but it’ll do here, as purely English people won’t be able to pronounce the Afrikaans name) because he was the ‘ugliest’ kitten of the litter. Such a truly teeny tiny little kitten with bright blue eyes, fur soft to the touch, only wanting to be loved – ugly? That’s what they thought. They even called him Gremlin.

I wonder what they would think, if they saw him now.

Mewsy is probably like any other ordinary cat. But not completely. He’ll come in through the front door, dash down the corridor, then stand by the back door in the kitchen, wanting to go out. Or, if he’s at the back door and I open my bedroom window for him (my window looks out over our backyard), he refuses to come up, and instead repeats his meowing / patient sitting until I do get up, walk all the way down the corridor into the kitchen, and then open the door for him. Many times, he sits pondering whether he wants to come in or not. It’s the same when he’s at the front door. ‘Do I want to come in?’ ‘Don’t I?’ ‘Should I go out in the cold, rainy weather?’ ‘Is it better to stay inside?’

Now I don’t want to go anthropomorphizing my cat, but it’s obvious that cats do think and debate / reason about things, although most certainly not in the same way as we humans – the dominant, ‘higher’ species – do…

When it’s time to feed the cat, he won’t eat until you’ve scratched his hid or at least given his smooth furry body a sleek rubbing down his back. If you don’t, he’ll just sit around looking forlorn, or continue meowing, or maybe hover around his food, looking at it in an odd, truly cat-like way, and then commence to lick himself.

He likes looking into kitchen cabinets, if they’re open. He also walks right into them, making me feel as if it were my fault. He sits by me while I do the ironing or washing up. Sometimes he even comes into the bathroom with you (or at least outside it), licking himself, or just sitting about pleasantly. He always chooses the most inconvenient times to come sit on you – like most cats, I’m sure. But he doesn’t merely try to worm his way onto your lap when you’re busy reading or writing or studying or being creative or typing on your laptop, even. No, he likes to come sit on the back of my legs (my calves, that is) when I am on my knees, usually because my sister is sitting on my bed and I am leaning over to look at what she is showing me.

My cat gets away with a lot. He’s a cat, after all. My white duvet covers have been covered with black cat hair numerous times, yet I don’t reprimand him. I even let him sleep on my pillow. And I move things out of the way so that they don’t bother him… and he lays smack bang in front of the heater, relishing in its warmth.

Plus he’s funny. Tremendously funny, like only cats can be. He has jumped onto my windowsill and bumped his head, much like he has bumped it against many a kitchen cabinet door. Or he’ll jump onto my bed, over onto my second bed, leaping the short distance into the windowsill, skid a bit, look outside, then make a mad dash to get back onto the floor again, and streak out of my room as if his tail were on fire. He also has a tendency to sit about quietly, and then for no good, apparent reason to jump up – a mini leap, like you would see a deer or gazelle make. And then he just walks on further or sits down, as if it were the most normal thing.

I worry about him many times. He looks very scrawny to me. He’ll gain some weight, then just drop it straight off again (wish I knew the secret to that!) He doesn’t have worms, and we’ve used flea powder and tablets and you name it, but I think – without being overly dramatic and pessimistic – that he might have cancer. He has a bump on his left side, which causes him to walk funny sometimes. He doesn’t seem to be suffering, and yet, what if he is? It’s an awful thought, having to put down your beloved furry four-legged feline companion, one who has been with you since you were eight (almost nine) and who was there while you were growing up… So he won’t go. Not yet… not yet…

Oh, and did I mention he licked all the caramel off my younger sister’s birthday cake once?

To my future husband’s male friends

25 11 2009

Dear Male Specimens (or does ‘personages’ sound better?)

This is a letter I extend to you not as a threat or with any hateful intent. Thus far we have all gotten along quite well, and I am truly happy that my Significant Other has such great  – no, make that wonderful – male friends. I have seen the way you all are when you are together… although I shall probably never completely understand everything you talk about, since (a) I didn’t go to school with any of you, (b) I am not in the computer industry (or watch South Park that much), and (c) because I am not, as it is obvious, part of the male species.

I must admit that I was a bit shy that first time I met you all, having only officially met my Significant Other (face to face, that is) the day before I was introduced to the rest of you. I know that some of you might have been a bit sceptic about me, since I’m so quiet and reserved. Apparently, at least according to my Significant Other, one of you thought I was stoned or high or just out of it (whatever you want to call it; and no, I have never in my life taken drugs). The thing is, I am an observer. I like to ‘scope’ things out, if you will, and need to feel comfortable before venturing into verbal communication. As almost two years have by now passed, I think it is safe to say that you all know me a bit better (even if I don’t talk much), and hopefully that you all think that I am good enough for your friend.

So now, I shall make a request. It might seem trivial or stupid, even a bit ridiculous or insecure, yet it is something which has been lodged so firmly into my mind due to endless amounts of movies, stories you hear, and even photographs you see on Facebook. Please, please, for my Significant Other’s bachelor party / stag night, don’t take him to a strip club, or hire strippers, or anything like that. I love him dearly, so much in fact that I cannot put it into words (even though they are my forte, if written). In the movie THE WEDDING DATE, Dermot Mulrony tells the groom-to-be that, if you are in love with someone, then you don’t want to look at a hooker. And I would think that this is what it boils down to – why, if you love someone, should your friends (stereotypically, not necessarily you lot I am referring to) find it necessary, no, essential to grant you One Last Night Of Freedom? It makes me nauseous just thinking about it…

And can you blame me? Honestly?

I may not look like much. I may not be gorgeous, or well-endowed in the bosom department, but my Significant Other is my Life – my Soul Mate, the only place where I feel at home, feel safe. No woman likes the thought of her future husband looking at mostly naked girls, downing a lot of booze and having lap dances. How would men like it if women did exactly the same thing on their hen nights? Which happens, nowadays – I’ve seen photographs of women doing pole dancing and drinking insane amounts of shots and hard liquor (sometimes straight from the bottle), and grinding against well-built men who most certainly are not their grooms-to-be. But you see, women aren’t ‘allowed’ to be like that, or to do the same things. It has always been viewed as a taboo, only now Modern Society allows it. Nothing is looked down upon in our current age, it seems.

Yet that doesn’t mean that I have to like it. Or to comply with it, great gods forbid.

I know you might think that my feelings are unfounded. Most men would laugh my comments off and think, “Oh dear, another insecure woman, poor thing”, but at least I have been honest with you. You have all become so valuable to me, and the warmth I feel when I think of you and all the times I have had the privilege of spending with you, of being able to watch and listen to you (notice I say ‘watch’, not ‘study’) really means a lot to me. I am thankful that you have ‘accepted’ me – as far as I know, at least – and that you have all been such true, amazing and unrelenting friends to my Significant Other. May that bond never be broken…

And thus, I bid adieu to you all, and fondly hope that none of you now think of me as a Prude (with a capital ‘P’).

I remain, yours sincerely


Thank you for Blogging (awards time)

24 11 2009

So yesterday, much to my shy delight, I read on the Perfectly Cursed One’s blog that she had seen fit to bestow one of her Thank You For Blogging Awards upon me ( Flattered as I am, I shall thus continue her tradition – now in its second year – by adhering to the rules, as laid out by her (and I quote):

“1.  Each recipient who receives a TYFBA must give away at least four (4) TYFBAs

2.  Each recipient must describe, in at least three words why they are giving that person the award.

3.  Each recipient must gobble.  Just kidding…I just wanted three rules.”

Here goes, then…

(1) Perfectly Cursed Life ( as stated in my blog entry on 18 November, this is a blog you definitely should be reading! Fun, witty, cat lover, soon-to-be-published writer who can make you smile with every entry. Plus she got me blogging again, which is why I have blogged every day thus far for the month of November. November isNational Blog Posting Month, if I’m not mistaken – NaBloPoMo… is that only in America, as it is “national” and not “international”? Oh well, no matter where I live, at least I’m doing something I love: writing. Many thanks to the Perfectly Cursed One *smile* Go read her blog!!!

(2) Vodka for Breakfast ( I came upon this blog accidentally. I was at my Significant Other’s apartment, trying to find a means of amusing myself, and started clicking through the tags section on (or was it under freshly pressed?) when I noticed an article titled “Alvin and the Chipmunks: Wha?” – HILARIOUS! The blog, in the blogger’s words, is about “things [that] grind my goddamn gears and some things [that] dont grind my goddamn gears”. Hope you have as much a good time laughing as I do!

(3) EpiCute ( call me a silly old fool, yet I love looking at these expertly taken photographs of… well… epically cute food *sheepy grin* The pictures are colourful and hunger (or craving, rather) inducing, plus she loves taking pictures of cupcakes – how can’t you love that in a blog?! Perusing through this blog led me to perusing others, looking at the pictures there, etc. – helping me discover new things (not to mention an intense longing for cupcakes…)

(4) Working Girl ( I recently became a member of 20 Something Bloggers, and found Working Girl Two while browsing through people’s ‘profile pages’. Her blog seems ideally suited to myself, as I am soon moving into the job sector. This blog received was the 20SB Bootlegs 2009 Winner – the best blog about career/ occupation (or so the award says)… Plus she loves How I Met Your Mother!! *laugh* [I once did a Facebook quiz, and apparently I am like Ted. In some ways, I’d say that’s true…]

Okay, I think that’s it from me. I’m still ‘rather new’ to the blogging world (although I created my blog in March), so I’m still at the Browsing Blogs Stage. But as soon as I find some noteworthy bloggers for your reading enjoyment, I’ll let you know.

[I’d mention my Significant Other’s blog, but his is more work related – he’s a Flash Developer, remember? – plus he hasn’t had time to blog as much…]